


Look No Hands

by Katjatier



Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: A lot of weird shit, Body Horror, But don't try this at home, But like sappy stuff as well, Depression, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masochism, More tentacles than the Tsukiji Fish Market, Other, Rough Sex, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Undernegotiated Kink, You don't need safe words when you have a telepathic symbiote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-06 21:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16395782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katjatier/pseuds/Katjatier
Summary: Eddie is feeling bad about himself and wants his giant lump of alien goo to punish him. We've all been there.





	Look No Hands

Eddie wakes up in the dark of his bedroom, sweaty and half-naked and twisted in the bedsheets and with no idea what time it is, and he's pretty sure already that none of these things is the result of him having any fun. 

No, clearly it has been one of those days. Not long ago, before Venom, _every day of Eddie’s life_ had been one of those days: now, the ratio has gone down a little. But days like this still happen, and they aren’t rare. Vaguely, Eddie remembers getting up to piss earlier, while there had still been sunlight in the room, and thinking to himself that the light must be from the sun coming up. Now, though, it’s dark, just the glow of the streetlights coming in through the old sheet he’d hung up over the bedroom window. He must have gotten day and night the wrong way round again, which in turn means he must have been on another one of his at-home, all-day, cheap-beer benders.

He turns over, twisting himself further in the sheets, and fumbles for his phone on the nightstand. The screen stays black. It’s out of power: he had, of course, not thought to plug it in before falling into bed. Eddie gropes for the charger, doesn't find it: he must have left it in the kitchen again.

“Christ,” he mumbles to himself. “What the fuck am I doing.”

 _You decided to take a short nap,_ the voice in his head says. 

Eddie rubs at his cheek: he’s still not used to that voice coming out of nowhere, especially so soon after waking up. “Short? We’ve been out for half the fucking night.”

 _Five hours. That is shorter than your usual rest period._  

Eddie crumples back onto the mattress and curls up on his side. One day, he will have to educate Venom about exactly what a _nap_ is supposed to be, but now it doesn’t seem worth the trouble.

As a matter of fact, not much _does_ seem worth the trouble right now. He is wide awake and only a little hungover,which means he’s fucked up his sleep cycle again, but that’s not the depressing part. The depressing part is that Eddie had been _able_ to do that, because he’d had nothing better to do than drink all day and fall asleep at 3pm. Not long ago, he’d worked long hours, had spent time socializing with other people who had jobs and lives and wanted to be around him. Now he has no job to go to, _nowhere_ to go to. No one to sit down and eat dinner with. He could disappear for _days_ and—

 _Eddie_. The voice interrupts the mental black hole Eddie is busy throwing himself into.

 “Just fucking leave me alone,” he says, and pulls the nearest pillow over his head as if that could block out the voice. “I don’t wanna talk.”

 _Eddie_ , Venom says again. This time he feels movement alongside it, a little shifting in his chest and belly, the familiar fuzzy, ticklish sensation as a tentacle presses outwards through the skin of his stomach. At first he thinks Venom is attempting to hug him, which is—not something he has done before.

But the tentacle doesn’t go for an awkward embrace; instead, it moves downward, slipping over the hair just below his belly button, and— _oh_.

“No,” Eddie says firmly from under the pillow, and he pushes his hand down to take hold of the tentacle pushing down across his groin area. It’s slippery, and twists a little in his hand, like a dying eel. “Not a good time.”

This is probably just learned behavior on Venom’s part, he figures. Venom has access to his memories, of course, and must have learned that whenever Eddie is in a mood like this he usually ends up sadly jerking himself off. That happened so often in the six months before Venom showed up that it probably seems like a more regular habit than showering.

But jerking off like that never actually _helped,_ that’s the thing: it always ended with Eddie having a not-very-satisfying orgasm and then crying himself to sleep in the pillow after. That kind of thing was acceptable back when he was alone, but Eddie is _not_ going to partake in a sex-and-crying-into-the-pillow session while Venom is here with him. Eddie is currently on a good four-day streak since Venom has seen him cry himself to sleep into his pillow, and he’s not about to break it tonight.

 _You need something else instead,_ the voice says _._

Eddie is also not quite used to the fact that Venom is able to access his thought processes _while he’s having them_. “Yeah, I do need something else,” he mumbles into the fabric of pillow case. It doesn’t smell so good: it’s been a while since he made it to the laundromat. “I need you to get me a new fucking life. Or maybe just beat my head against a wall so hard that I forget everything. Or just distract me by punching me in the face, or maybe just bite my fucking head off, it'll—”

_You want me to hurt you._

Eddie stops, cutting himself off. Venom is in every part of him and he can _see_ , had filtered out the bullshit until he got to the truth hiding behind Eddie's stupid jokes, even while Eddie himself was barely aware that truth was there. It’s like getting walked in on naked _inside his brain_ , and maybe it should be horrifying, but instead it sparks the first thing in him since he woke up that isn’t despair.

Because—Venom is right, of course. Venom is one hundred percent right. Anne used to hurt him sometimes back when they were together, when Eddie was feeling particularly stressed: nothing elaborate, just slapping him a bit, or fucking him a little harder than usual. And later, after Anne had left and his stress had turned to utter wretched misery, Eddie had often reflected back on those times while sadly jerking off.

_You want it, Eddie._

He licks his lips, nods without thinking about it. It’s suddenly _all_ he wants, and he curls up a little more on his side on the bed, almost twitching with sudden eagerness. He wants it. It probably won’t help with much in the long term, but the idea of having someone pin him down on this bed and making him feel the way he _deserves_ to feel, making the outside match the awful inside, that is—

_Stop thinking, Eddie._

Eddie stutters, licks his lips again. He pulls the pillow away from his head and tosses it away somewhere behind him. “M-make me.”

The words don’t exactly come out sultry and confident, but then again Eddie is neither of those things. And they get the job done, regardless: what happens next happens quick.

Several clumps of small tentacles shoot out through the skin of his abdomen and twist around his wrists, and Eddie thinks Venom is going to hold his hands down against the mattress, or raise his wrists and attach them to the headboard. But instead Eddie's arms are pulled in front of him, crossed in front of his body like he’s folding his arms while nervous. The tendrils wrap around both arms, covering them completely, and then more of them are wrapping around his _body_ as well, covering his whole torso, like a makeshift straightjacket.

Eddie feels his breath hitch in his throat. He can’t perform any useful movement at _all_ right now, no matter how much he strains his arms: just trying to do so sends him flopping onto his back on the mattress, then back onto his side, like he’s a suffocating fish. Venom could so easily pin his whole body like this, could hold him face down into the sheets—sheets he also hasn’t washed in too long—so that Eddie couldn’t _breathe_ ; could shove him off the bed and onto the floor with nothing to break his fall, could mash his face into the wall until he cried, could—

—Christ, he’s hard already.

As it turns out, Venom does none of those things: instead, he seems content to just metaphorically sit back and observe as Eddie squirms and rocks his hips forward, trying to get some friction going between his still-clothed dick and the tangled wad of sheets that’s lying in front of him. Eddie almost does succeed in getting into a close-to-satisfactory humping position, but then the coils wrapping around his arms and torso suddenly contract like someone closing a fist, a tight painful warning squeeze.

_Don’t embarrass yourself. You are going to last much longer than that._

Eddie stops. Venom releases the tension, the tentacles relaxing into a normal grip, but Eddie finds that he can’t breathe much anyway. He’s already sweating anew even on the parts of his body that aren’t covered by warm black alien goo. He’s turning into a mess, and that’s before he feels something pawing at the back of his boxers.

It’s going to happen, right now. Venom has fucked him before, a few times, usually late at night after a few hours in front of the TV and enough beer to get Eddie buzzed enough that he’s not freaked out by the idea of alien sex. But never while Eddie was restrained like this, and not when Venom has said he is going to make it _hurt_ , and—it’s really going to happen. His dick twitches untouched in his boxers at the thought.

A part of Venom that he can’t see takes hold of the underwear and yanks down; the waistband catches on the head of Eddie’s erection on the way down, and he groans, his body jerking so hard the whole bed shudders. The boxers slide down over his thighs, the sheets that had been partially covering his legs coming with them, and then Venom lets go, leaving the cotton underwear caught around his knees. It makes Eddie feel more helpless, somehow, like another part of him is being pinned. He groans again. He wants Venom to touch him already.

Instead, there’s another pause. The air in the bedroom is cool on the skin of his legs, his ass. He stares, already breathing harder, past the open door of the bedroom out to the living room. There’s faint blue light in there from where Eddie had left the television on. He can hear water dripping from the bad faucet in the kitchen, a faint creak of floorboards as a neighbor moves somewhere in another apartment. If Eddie is too loud, someone might hear him.

This is the point where someone, a human someone, would ask if he’s sure. This is where Eddie would have to reassure them, maybe even beg. This is where they might have second thoughts and stop altogether.

That doesn’t happen. Venom just seems to be observing him again, and after a few seconds he says: _Close your eyes_.

Eddie does it.

 _I’m going to fuck you,_ the voice says. It seems louder now that he can’t see.

Eddie nods. The words, that voice inside him, the voice that he can’t get away from, that hits him _everywhere_ —it makes his whole spine light up, makes him shiver under the tentacles wrapped like black cables around him. He twists, unthinking, against the wrinkled bedsheets under him. He wants it. He already wants it so badly. He’s going to come just thinking about it.

Another thin tentacle is touching him, moving over his ass, down to the top of his thigh. Eddie swallows: there seems to be too much spit in his mouth. He grunts as the tentacle moves, jerking forward, and touches him with very unromantic suddenness right behind his balls. It feels too thin for something that’s aimed at penetrating him, and sure enough it slides _forward_ , over his balls, wrapping wet and slimy around his cock. Eddie opens his eyes and looks down: it’s just light enough in the room that he can see the little dark tendril moving over the flushed skin of his dick, coiling around him tight. Can see a little patch of goo spreading over the head of it like it’s sealing him up. He won’t be able to come after all, not until Venom wants him to, and he doesn’t know whether to sigh in relief at that or swear in frustration.

It doesn’t matter what he feels about it, he supposes, and the fact that it doesn’t matter is—it’s good. It’s good. He stops to appreciate the nice little glow in his chest that the realization causes, and he almost forgets—

 _“Ahh._ Ah, _Jesus_.” He’d lost track of the fact that an alien had just declared his intentions to fuck him in the ass.

He’s _very much_ reminded now. The tentacle that pushes into him is relatively small, not much bigger than a finger, and it’s less painful than he'd feared, but it’s insistent, and the way it _moves_ —Eddie still isn’t used to that. He jerks his hips, rocking forward a bit almost onto his stomach, and then back onto his side, as if any of that will help him get away.

At this point, Anne would have told him to hold still. Would have slapped him, maybe, until he stopped moving. Venom, on the other hand, just lets him squirm: the tentacle still just pushes forward, worming its way deeper. Venom doesn’t _need_ him to be still. Eddie is going to take it no matter what.

And he does, rocking back and forth while the tentacle writhes and twists and presses on his insides in ways that don’t seem like they should be possible. It still doesn’t hurt much, but it’s _deep_ , intense and violating in a way a strap-on or a cock has never been. More tendrils are already sliding down from Eddie’s lower back, another already starting to snake its way in next to the first. It stretches now, a little, and Eddie is just getting his breath under control to bear down and deal with it when he feels a _third_.

This is—not the way Venom fucked him before. This is not normal at all. The tentacles all start to move inside him, and he can’t anticipate the motion, can’t get a handle on what’s coming next so he can prepare. Every so often one will slide up against his prostate, but Venom doesn’t seem to be particularly aiming for any sort of deliberate pleasure, and mostly it is just a very acute _being fucked_ sensation.

Which makes it more embarrassing that his cock is as hard as ever.

A forth tendril is pushing at him, trying to get in where the first three are already stretching him out, and a heavy feeling grows in Eddie’s chest that’s either anticipation or terror, or perhaps both.

“W—wait,” he says.

No response: the tentacle simply pushes inside along the others and starts moving in further. He clenches his teeth at the sting. He can’t stop moving now: he keeps bucking his hips like he can get away, strains and twists his arms where they’re pinned sweatily against his chest. It achieves nothing. And—God— _another_ one is pushing already, trying to find a way in, and he’s so _full_ —

“No,” Eddie coughs out. “No, no, wait—”

The tentacle pauses.

Eddie pauses as well, breath caught in his throat. The tentacles trapping his upper body seem to have slackened a little, like Venom is about to pull away and abruptly end this.

No, _no_. It’s going to be over already; Eddie has fucked it up, caused a misunderstanding, just like he fucks up _everything_. It’s going to be sad masturbation for him tonight after all, and right when it was getting so _good_. He wants to cry.

But then _everything_ clamps down, the thin tentacles wrapped around him and the tendril around his cock. It’s so tight around his arms and shoulders that he swears he hears his bones creak, and Eddie has to turn his face into the pillow so he doesn’t scream loud enough to alert the whole building.

“Ahh…. Aahhhh—”

 _Does it hurt now,_ Venom says in Eddie’s head. He sounds extremely fucking happy with himself.

“That’s a—that’s a _stupid_ fucking ques— _ahhh!_ ” The tentacles shove forward, ramming deeper inside him like they’re trying to tear a hole out through his _stomach_ , and tears come to Eddie’s eyes even before he feels the new tentacle from before resuming its efforts to push inside him. Something in his gut cramps; his hands clench down into fists under where they’re wrapped and covered in black. His knees draw up to his chest; all this achieves is making his ass more easily accessible.

He can’t breathe. He can’t take it. It’s terrible, it hurts like he’s been punched from the inside, and it is _absolutely everything he ever wanted_. He’s never needed to come so bad in his life.

“Please,” he says. “Oh god, Venom, please, let me—”

 _No_ , he says. _More_.

More? What the hell could be _more?_  

“No,” Eddie moans, and then, after a second: “No, oh god, Venom, what the _fuck_.”

There’s something—a tentacle, something, some part of Venom, moving down inside him, not penetrating him from the outside like the other tentacles are but really _inside_ , pressing down in the area somewhere behind his pubic bone. He doesn’t know what Venom is doing, doesn’t the _names_ for the places that presence inside him is prodding against. He didn’t know a feeling like this was _possible_.

Eddie is shaking. The sheets and pillowcase are damp under his legs and neck and cheek. The heavy presence inside him slithers down past what feels like the back of his bladder, and Eddie lets out a moan that turns into a scream halfway through.

“No—that’s—Venom, no—you’re going to kill me—”

He can’t—nothing has felt like this before. It’s too deep, it’s too much, it’s like something worse than a _nightmare_ , it hurts. The thing inside him _drags_ , sliding back and forth over hidden pieces of him and completely out of rhythm with the tentacles still fucking his ass, and Eddie would scream again if he could.

He can’t; he doesn’t have the breath left. Sweat is dripping off his forehead. His hands are numb. His lungs don't work. Venom thrusts again and Eddie lifts his head just enough to smash it back down into the pillow. “It’s too much,” he chokes out. “I can’t take it, please.”

_You can._

Eddie tries to shake his head. He’s going to pass out being fucked like this. He can’t talk anymore, can’t breathe. He can only beg in his head now. _I can’t take it any more I can't please please please_

 _Let go, love_ , Venom says, and then the strings of goo slacken from around his cock, the mess of it on the head loosening too, and he is free. Eddie wails.

It’s more like dying than anything else, and it seems to last forever. He can’t see anymore, can’t feel anything at all except for what Venom is doing to him. He _is_ nothing at all except what Venom is doing to him, nothing but pain and black coils, a string of open nerves to be manipulated. He jerks his hips forward again and again and pushes against the black that surrounds him and remembers, somewhere, somehow, that Venom had just called him _love_.

He is back in the bedroom, after a while, slowly regaining his breath. The tentacles wrapping his arms gradually loosen, and then release, fading back into his skin, leaving his upper body still hot and flushed and sweaty from the contact. The tentacles in his ass withdraw as well, stinging enough that he’d gasp if he weren’t already doing that. The other one inside him is gone already—there's just the familiar faint weight of Venom’s constant presence in his chest.

Eddie takes a few more breaths, and then manages to turn onto his back, the mattress creaking softly with the change in weight. The room is quiet and still. He barely even notices when it happens.

Another tentacle reaches up from the dimness in front of him, coming out from somewhere on Eddie’s lower body. It holds steady right above his neck, and then pulses once in front of his face.

Eddie closes his eyes in time, but his mouth is still open.

He’s still breathing deep from the orgasm. He breathes deeper when he realizes what has just happened, what the new taste in his mouth is. He hadn't felt any liquid on his skin after he came, he realizes now; hadn't seen any darker patch of it on the sheets. Venom must have stayed close enough to swallow it up, and now he has just—

“Fuck,” Eddie says, and wants to cry with joy.

 _You liked that_.

Eddie feels his hips jerk up weakly, even though there’s no strength left in him, even though his body feels like he just climbed a mountain and then had sex on top of that mountain and then climbed down again. He still can’t believe it. The cum is splattered all over his face, his lips, dripping down his cheekbones, and he makes no effort to close his mouth.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, Venom, I liked that.” He stops to breathe in, voice smaller and cracking. “Rub it in, please, Venom. Get it—get it all over my skin.”

Venom does it, and Eddie feels his cock twitch again, a valiant effort that leaves him extremely impressed. The little champion.

The new tentacle pulls away: Eddie's skin is sticky, filthy. He feels wrecked; he feels like he was just run over by a cable car; he feels like—

—like the shit he had been worrying about before isn’t that important, actually. Like everything's actually not that bad.

 _You feel better,_ Venom says. The tentacle that had just smeared his own jizz all over his face is stroking against his neck now, gentle. 

“I do,” Eddie says, and another human might not believe him and ask again to be sure, but Venom is inside him and a part of him, so he doesn’t. Instead, that tentacle just keeps stroking, pushing gently through his hair now. It’s better than a massage. 

“I’ll make you dinner,” Eddie says. “Once I’m cleaned up and I can—I can walk. To return the favor. We can eat together.”

_That will be good, Eddie._

_Love_ , Eddie thinks, and curls up with him on top of the disgusting sheets.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe AO3 didn't have an existing "semen being transported through a symbiote-alien-goo vesicle" tag, but I suppose that's the close-minded world we are living in. I'm on [tumblr.](https://katjatier.tumblr.com/)


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